The Sinner (6 page)

"No need to apologize, my lord." She gave him a sheepish smile with lips swollen by his kisses. "I enjoyed it."

Her good humor tore at his heart. Bloody hell. He shouldn't have done that. What had come over him? He was always so careful, always choosing the right sort of woman to kiss. Lady Slade was most certainly the wrong sort. Far too eligible, too sweet, too…everything!

"I…I don't know what came over me," he said, looking away at the row of houses nearby. He couldn't bear to see the effect his words had on her. Couldn't bear to know if he'd hurt her. "It won't happen again. You can be sure of that."

It was a long time before she answered. So long that he almost looked at her. "Of course it won't," she snapped. "Why would it?"

She was angry. Good. Anger was better than tears and pleas. He should have known a woman like her wouldn't plead. He had another way to fuel her anger further. A way that he fell back on time and again, that had almost become second nature to him. He would be Hughe, Lord Oxley, the foolish, irritating, fop.

"La!" he cried, thrusting out a hip. "I am so pleased that your sensibilities aren't injured, my dear lady. There is nothing worse than injured sensibilities, don't you find?"

"Pardon?"

He waggled his fingers in the air and touched his head. "My hat! Dear lady, you've addled my wits so much that I have left my hat somewhere! I do hope it has not met with foul play. I love that hat. Truly love it."

"You gave your hat to my brother-in-law. Don't you remember?"

He did not look at her. He didn't want to see the confusion in those intelligent, innocent eyes. He'd allowed himself to lower his guard around her, for some reason he couldn't explain. He'd let her see too much of the real Hughe. It had turned out to be a very stupid mistake.

Cat stared at her rescuer, but he did not look at her. He held his chin high, his nose higher, as he led his horse onward. What had come over him? Had that kiss truly confused him?

That was absurd. It had most certainly been a mind-blowing event, but it shouldn't have completely changed his nature. She'd seen hints of his foppishness at court, but there'd been no sign of it when he'd scared off those thugs. When he'd kissed her, well, he had certainly not been the sort of man who cared more about his hats than the woman in his arms. How odd. And humiliating. Was he putting on these airs so he could avoid talking about that kiss and what it meant?

If so, the man was a coward and not at all the gentleman she thought him to be. It was like she'd been exposed to two completely different people. One intelligent and amusing, kind and brave; the other his opposite in every way. She didn't like this one at all.

"Now, my dear lady, if we're to catch a husband for you, you must follow some simple rules."

She stumbled alongside him, hardly listening. This entire evening had been one strange event after the other, full of extreme lows and highs. She was still reeling from it all and her heart still pounded from the hunger of their kiss. Stephen had never kissed her like that. Never made her knees weak and sent her pulse thudding in her ears. Not ever.

"No more black," he declared. "I know you're in mourning, but it's time to set aside the widow's weeds and sport some color. What do you think of yellow?" He plucked at his bright yellow doublet. "It catches the eye, does it not? And it makes one easy to find in the dark, which is a benefit when there are no candles about."

She let him prattle. He quickly moved on from clothing to jewelry, hair and an account of the virtues of the gentlemen at court. "You mustn't be too fussy," he cautioned. "I know some are aged, and many are fat, but the important thing is a lack of brains. I have it on good authority that a dull-witted husband makes the best sort."

She knew that to be true at least.

"I shall endeavor to find you the dullest, most witless husband court has to offer. It shall be a challenge, since there are so many, but at least you'll have a choice."

He continued on like that all the way to the house. She couldn't shut the door on his face fast enough. She even forgot to thank him again for saving her.

Cat undressed herself since she'd not brought a maid with her—too expensive to feed an extra mouth in the city according to Slade. She slipped under the bedcovers. Her body still hummed all over, not from the attack but from the kiss. Not even Oxley's strange change of behavior could eradicate the memory of his lips, soft and warm against hers, and the way his strong hands held her waist firmly as if he would never let her go. She'd discovered that his doublet was not bombasted, and his impressive shoulders and chest were entirely due to muscle, not padding. Oh yes. Quite impressive. 

She stretched out her legs and refused to think of the Lord Oxley who'd said goodbye to her at the door and only remember the one who'd rescued and kissed her. That man was a gentleman. A woman could too easily forget her plan to wed and agree to be his mistress instead, if he offered. Forget the moral high ground. She wanted to live a little and be with a man who set her on fire with just one kiss.

Unfortunately she was positive the position of mistress wasn't vacant, otherwise he'd have kissed her again. And more.

***

Hughe followed Slade and his man for most of the morning as the baron ran some minor errands. He wasn't seen, disguised as he was as a dirty laborer in a city teeming with apprentices and laborers working on construction sites. The ragged clothing and cap was an outfit he kept for times he needed to blend in and travel light. There was no need to hide anyone in a cart this time, or inside a barrel. He didn't even carry a sword, sporting only a club strapped to his hip like most London laborers, ready to jump into a brawl at the merest incitement.

Slade and Hislop avoided the shops along Cheapside. There would be no souvenir purchases from their city visit. To Hughe's surprise, they didn't venture toward the docks either, where he expected Slade to connect with a merchant or two. It's what he would do if he found himself in need of cargo to buy low and sell high. There was always something coming in from the Orient or the Continent, or even just a relationship to forge for the future.

No, Slade drank in an alehouse then headed back to The Strand, where the grand estates occupied by the nation's wealthiest men swept from the wide thoroughfare down to the bank of the Thames. Hughe had a house there. It was ironic that he would travel so far on foot only to wind up where he'd begun that morning.

Or not quite. Slade stopped a few houses up from Hughe's London residence, at Lord Marchment's gate. Perhaps Slade wasn't as badly off as Hughe thought. Lord Marchment sat on the Privy Council. He was one of Her Majesty's intimate advisers. If anyone could drag Slade out of poverty, it was Marchment. The man had one finger in the treasury and several others in various lucrative pies.

Hughe leaned against a horse's trough positioned at the side of the road and pretended to rest. In truth, he was watching through near-closed eyes, and thinking. He did not like Slade. He was a poor brother-in-law and a sly fellow. But was it possible that
he
had been Hughe's anonymous client? Had he wanted his brother dead so he could take over his estate? Even an impoverished estate was better than none.

Surely the man wasn't that cold-hearted?

Hughe expelled a breath. Even if it had been the new Slade who hired him to eradicate the old one, the old Slade was a killer and probably a rapist too, although the latter had been difficult to prove. There was no doubt about the former charger of murder. Hughe had thoroughly investigated him, and he knew with absolute certainty that Cat's husband had murdered the villager, Crabb, when Crabb had accused Slade of forcing himself upon his wife.

Slade had never been challenged over the death, but a little prodding of the right people and connecting some very clear dots had proved to Hughe that Slade did it. He wasn't a good man, by all accounts, although it would seem he'd thoroughly duped Cat into thinking he was. Then again, she admitted to hardly ever seeing her husband during their life together. It may be the ideal type of marriage in Hughe's book, but he couldn't image it making her very happy. She needed companionship and conversation, someone to keep her warm at night and nurture her. Keep her safe.

Slade and Hislop emerged through the gate. They didn't head back into the city, but toward Whitehall and Charing Cross. Most likely they were returning to their rented rooms to dine. Since he was so close to home, Hughe returned there to change.

Some time later he made his way out, once more dressed as Lord Oxley the fop. His peacock blue doublet and crimson breeches earned him a number of sniggers and pointing fingers that he didn't acknowledge. His two servants trailed some distance behind on horseback, most likely embarrassed by the attention. They were young and not used to their master's ways yet.

Their journey was short, only to the narrow three-story house at Charing Cross where he had delivered Cat the night before. Cat. The name suited her. She was as lean as a feline, her skin as soft, her eyes as quick. He would like to murmur that name in her ear while he had her in his arms, in bed, and—

Enough, Oxley!

The neat, prim landlady led him up to the room acting as Lord Slade's study. She kept glancing warily over her shoulder at Hughe's hat. He had to admit it was an absurd piece, with peacock feathers springing from the back like tails. He couldn't wait to remove it, which he did upon seeing Slade.

The man glanced up from his desk, a look of shock on his oily features. "My lord!" He rose from his chair and gave an awkward bow over the desk. "What a pleasant surprise."

The landlady retreated as silently as she presented him.

Hughe sat, sweeping his cape around his body like a bird wing. "It is, isn't it?"

Slade sat slowly, looking past Hughe to the door. Hughe did not turn to see who stood there, although he assumed the thickly muscled Hislop was hovering nearby. He looked to be handier with a blade than the soft Slade. On the other hand, it could be Cat listening. Hughe steeled himself.

"What can I do for you, my lord?" Slade asked. He tried out a smile on Hughe, but it didn't suit him. It quickly slid away without a trace.

"I came to warn you."

"Warn me?" Slade cocked his head to the side. "What about?"

"About allowing your sister-in-law to walk home alone at night in a strange city." He leaned forward, and in the only moment of seriousness that he would allow himself, he pinned Slade with a fierce glare. "Do not do it again or I will see to it that whatever befalls her will befall you. Doubly." He leaned back. "Do you understand, or do you just like leaving your mouth open to see what you can catch?"

"I…uh…"

"It's a simple question, Slade. Do you understand?" He pushed back the edge of his cape to reveal his sword hilt for good measure. 

Finally Slade's jaw clamped shut with an audible snap of back teeth. "Aye, my lord. I understand." He pressed his palms flat to the table and watched Hughe through dark, narrowed eyes. "Is there anything else, my lord?"

"There is."

"Can I get you refreshments? Wine?"

"No. I'm here on a matter of business. I wish to know how your brother died."

After a moment in which Slade stared at him, his mouth once more flopping open, Slade told Hughe how his brother had met his end. The official version. He did not bat an eyelid, yet Hughe didn't quite believe his story. Like Cat, he guessed that Slade didn't accept that his brother met with a hunting accident. Was that because he knew otherwise?

"Do you know the woods near Slade Hall, my lord?" Slade asked.

Hughe saw no reason to lie. "I've been there, yes."

Slade's brows rose. "And yet you never visited us? My brother would have been hurt if he'd known."

"Your father might have been the baron then. I don't recall."

"How long ago was your visit?"

"Two years." Indeed, it had only been two months, but Slade wasn't to know that. If Slade did indeed hire Hughe to kill his brother, he
couldn't
know it. None of Hughe's clients ever discovered his identity. He was very careful about protecting not only his own, but that of his men.

"Then it was certainly my brother," Slade said. He had a strange look on his face, and an oddly sharp twist to his mouth as if he found something amusing. He glanced past Hughe again to the doorway. "Were you there before or after the floods that nearly drowned us that year?"

Bloody hell. Hughe knew nothing about a flood. "Before."

"I see. Then you must have visited before March of ninety-seven." Slade's smile grew thoughtful and once more his gaze flicked behind Hughe.

Hughe gave in and glanced around. There was no one there. He frowned. Had Cat appeared only to just as quickly disappear? "I suppose." He turned his attention back to Slade and caught the tail end of his sneer. He frowned harder. What the hell had just happened? Was Slade testing him? Hughe had been so distracted with the thought of seeing Cat again he'd lost the thread of the conversation. He only hoped he hadn't said anything to implicate himself.

"About your sister-in-law," he said. "Something must be done about her."

"I agree." Slade steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips. "Do you have something in mind?"

"I do." Hughe lowered his voice. If someone were at the door, he wouldn't be overheard. "I'm going to give her a house and an income so that she doesn't need to remarry."

CHAPTER 4

Slade blinked. "Pardon?"

"You heard me." Hughe took great pains to remove his gloves, pinching each finger carefully and studying the act intensely. "I've taken a liking to her."

"You wish to make her your mistress?"

Hughe laughed loudly, ending in a snort. "No, dim wit. I'm simply going to fund her until she finds a suitable husband."

"Ah, well, that may not be too long."

Hughe paused, one glove half off. "You've found her a husband?"

"Not yet. But if she doesn't find one while in London, I'm afraid she'll have to wed the blacksmith from our village. I'll have her married off within—"